[Pink Pig Time Machine by Wilfrid: July 27, 2009]
Ten years ago, the train ride back from Tarragona to Barcelona was hot and slow. I was reading Manuel Vázquez Montalbán for the first time, The Angst-Ridden Executive, a thriller full of Catalan politics and gourmet food.
Checking into the rather fancy Le Meridien, just off the Ramblas, I fell into a prolonged siesta, emerging only for a cava session at Xampú Xampany, the swish, spirit-lifting bubbly bar on the Plaça de Tetuan. From there, I seem to have moved on to a nightclub called Nick Havana. I really don't remember anything about it, and the notes in my diary are terse: "videos, music, babes" [sic]. A new experience the next day; my first visit to the Poble Espanyol on Montjuic.
Built for the 1929 international expo, this bills itself as an outdoor architectural museum. In fact, it's a life-size, functioning village, with buildings representing a range of Spanish (and Catalonian) architectural styles across the regions and centuries. To my surprise, it's actually a busy spot - not just a tourist attraction, but rather like a regular city neighborhood. Plenty of busy bars and restaurants.
The evening's entertainment began in a bar almost concealed beneath a cavernous ceramics shop on c. des Escudellers. On my visit to the city last year, I found it closed, although the shop still prospers. A selection of hams and some cecina de León, a fine dried beef, accompanied glasses of local red. Then a tour of the old tapas bars around c. d'Avinyo. Snails, stuffed potatoes, croquettes, more ham, lomo; a familiar story. Dessert at the cocktail bar on c. Anselm Clave, Margarita Blue.
And sadly, the last day of the trip. Rich, thick chocolate with xurros to start the day, then last-minute shopping. I am surprised to see that it was this day, ten years ago, that I heard the news of John Kennedy Jr.'s plane crash. A last dinner, Set Portes again. The little green beans - habas - dressed with fresh mint. The espaldita de cabra, shoulder of a young goat, beautifully roasted and served with fried potatoes. Not a foam or a soil in sight. The 1991 Tondonia Gran Reserva, undoubtedly a bargain. And to bed, as the rain set in.
I returned via London, finding time for oysters and champagne in Terminal 4 before taking the early evening flight to JFK. Next week, dog days in New York. Plus I get sick again.